


Proximity

by Otterly



Series: deer/tiger idiots [1]
Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-17 14:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otterly/pseuds/Otterly
Summary: Deer and Tiger do friend things maybe





	Proximity

**Author's Note:**

> Based off character art drawn by https://www.artstation.com/perryallen
> 
> A few months ago, the Zootopia /trash/ thread drew art based off of this guy's art, and every single piece art that they made was stupid cute, so I ended up writing this.
> 
> Enjoy!

Okay so I’m gonna need like ten mammals (all taken care of) and a single softball (the pink ones that are all soft on the outside), and we’ll have to go somewhere that the teachers are less likely to see us, which means we’re gonna have to go to the back, and Russell hates the back so I’m gonna have to spend some time trying to find a way to convince him to come with, but all in all I think that this game of Hardcore Dodgeball™ is due to go off without a hitch!

That’s until I tell Kim my plan and she looks at me with those octopus eyes that all goats have, and she goes, “Yeah, Jamie? There’s a problem with that.”

Problem means the same thing as hitch, in this case. And the hitch is _the tiger._

So I sigh, and I walk outside.

Break rages on in the front of the school. Everyone’s up to something but I’m not very good at being invisible, so they notice me trying to sneak past. I’m forced to wave slightly at the mammals I know, but continue walking, so I have to feel their eyes on me as they wonder why I’m not coming over. _So_  awkward.

When I come around to the side, I find it completely empty. We should really make use of the space given to us, but no one likes the side for some reason and the back has a bunch of ghost stories about it and at least one of them has to be true. Not that I’m scared of ghosts. They’re like spiders, I think. They’re fine as long as they aren’t anywhere near me.

The Tiger. How do I describe him?

He seems nice. He’s not in my class, and never has been in any of my classes. He’s a little, you know, tiger-y. Tiger-y, like, lonely. He likes being alone. Dad told me once that Gazelle’s backup dancers are the most tigers he’s seen actually co-exist without being all obnoxious and territorial and junk. I don’t really believe him there, but I believe that they kinda enjoy being alone. For some reason.

And, I mean, we’ve been giving him plenty of help on that end.

I bite my lip as I pace back and forth, feeling a few drops of rain fall from the sky. I walk to the corner, think about turning it, and then walk back.

I’m being a coward. But that’s my license! I’m only thirteen. I’m not, like, Purrcy Jackson or anything like that. I’m just trying to get a B average in my classes so I can transfer to that fancy middle school that my dad wants me to go to next year, in Tundratown, after we move. And the funny thing is, I can’t do that if I get mauled by a tiger before the end of the school year. _Why is it raining?_

I calm my breathing, staring at the dreaded corner.

Remember the Nighthowler Crisis? That was fake. Bellwether did that. None of it was real. It was like in the movies, but all of the savage predators were method acting without consent. So it’s dumb to be afraid of the dumb tiger anyway. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t even know him. I can’t call him dumb.

What was his name?

Cameron! It was Cameron. Never say that I have bad memory. I don’t think anyone’s said that, ever, now that I think about it. Which is good.

I shudder one more time, and walk around the corner.

 

It’s bigger than I expected, despite the fact that I’ve seen the back of the school before. But that’s a bad thing. I would’ve liked it better if I just turned and he was standing there, claws out, flexing his muscles, with a gun in his hand and ready to shoot me.

But no. Instead, I get an entire two million yards of no-mans-land between me and the kid sitting at the top of the stairway leading down into the parking lot, earbuds in his ears as he hums that new Hyena Gomez song and he really doesn’t look that scary, actually!

You know what? I can do this. I _can_  do this. I’m not old enough to have my antlers yet, but I might as well be, because I’m a mature deer and I’m not scared of dying. I could die right now and I wouldn’t even care. I could die in the next five minutes and I’d be completely fine with it.

When did my legs start moving?

Walking is truly something to behold. I’m already halfway there. The tiger — Cameron! Stop forgetting his name, idiot — the tiger’s ears are going wild, like phones vibrating in slow motion. He probably smelled me when I was pacing around back before I turned the corner.

Oh my god.

I get closer, and closer, and before I can reasonably make a break for it (not that I want to, but the option is always nice) I’m a few metres away from him.

Cameron removes one of his earbuds and when he turns towards me, I get my first good look at his face since he transferred. His eyes are a really bright shade of yellow, but the thing that really stands out about him is his thick fur. I’ve never seen tiger fur up close but it looks like he melted down a bunch of pennies and dyed his orange parts with it. Layers upon layers of his coat are actually, no joke, seriously glistening.

Maybe I should ask him what his shampoo is? That’d be a nice ice breaker.

“Uh…hey,” I squeak. “I like your fur.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. Good. No immediate threat displays or anything. “Thanks.”

“What,” I say. Somehow. I can’t finish my sentence. I know what I want to say and how to say it, but I can’t finish my sentence. “Uh. What?”

“Thanks,” he repeats, slower, ear twitching. Bad sign. He’s getting annoyed.

I clear my throat. “Right. Right. You’re welcome. You’re Cameron, right? I’m—”

“I know who you are,” he interrupts, taking out his other earbud. “Most people in the school do, I think. You planned the winter dance and you’re probably in the top ten most popular kids at school. What do you want?”

“Top ten might be pushing it,” I say, humbly looking down as I check the cleanliness of my hooves. “I’d say fifteen. How often do you hang out here?”

“All the time. Ghost stories are dumb.”

“Agreed,” I nod my head. “Most of them, anyway. Hey — me and my friends were wondering if we could play something back here. Would that be alright with you?”

He tilts his head. “It’s not like I own the school or anything.”

“No, yeah, but like, some of my friends are a little…” I wave my hooves around. “Sensitive. Can you maybe go somewhere else when we’re using this place?”

“What?”

“I’d also be okay with you staying out of sight, but that might get a little annoying to monitor.”

“No, what?”

“I’m pretty sure you heard me,” I tell him, taking note of the sudden fluff in his neck area. Might not be a good—

**Movement.**

I scramble backwards as he takes a step towards me.

“Calm down!” I command shakily, holding my arm out like I’m holding a cross.

Miraculously, he stops, but he narrows his eyes at me and it feels like what his claws must feel like. Not great. Let’s hope I don’t actually find out. Through a terse exhale, he seethes. “Where do you expect me to go?”

Despite literally everything, I step towards him. “I don’t know! I don’t know your life. I don’t know what you want out of a hiding spot. You could go to the side. Or _in_ side. Just, not here! This school is huge!”

“To you,” he says.

“I’m pretty sure the laws of space and time still apply to _you_.”

“Well, now I’m definitely not moving.”

“Oh, come on!” I yell, now ignoring all of the warning signs I see in his body language. If I act like I have antlers, I’m gonna have antlers. Does that make any sense? “You’re being a total downer, dude. Do you want money or something? I have fifty dollars with your name on it.”

He thinks about it, then nods.

Why did I say the exact amount? “Okay, I don’t actually have the money—“

 _“Ugh,”_ he groans.

“I’ve planning this for like two whole weeks,” I explain. “It’s gonna be the funnest thing I’ve done all year and it’s really important to me and if you do this then — I don’t know. I’ll do your homework for a month or two.”

The tiger laughs. “I don’t need your help with anything. I have straight As.”

Yeah, straight As in being an insensitive cocky-for-no-reason social pariah that no one likes because he looks and smells like he was raised in a barn in the underground parts of Bunnyburrow.

His posture changes in a fraction of a second as he stiffens up and his lips form a hard line. “Excuse me?”

“Did…did I say that out loud?” I ask, chuckling as I take another few steps back. He’s moving again. That’s not good. He’s moving again. Towards me.

“You did. You want to try saying that to me again? I’m not sure if I heard you correctly.”

“Pretty sure that whatever I said was both pretty clear and not to be taken seriously at all because those were private thoughts,” I laugh again, stammering all the while. “A-And privacy’s really important in the city of Zootopia if you haven’t noticed so if you could ignore the last ten seconds for me that — that would be amazing.”

We’re walking backwards and forward in sync, magnetically being drawn together and away from each other and when he’s not looking I tense my leg and _try to make a break for it—_

Something pulls me backwards by the collar. It’s a paw. It’s his paw. He turns me around, pulling me way too close than I ever needed to be to him and his eyes are really scary now that they’re right in my face. I struggle, trying to thrash but not being able to even do that. I can’t even squirm. Soon enough, I can’t move. It’s his paw and my throat, and it’s squeezing me and I can’t breathe.

“You know what else is important in this city?” Cameron asks. That’s his name. Cameron. He’s glaring down at me. _“Knowing your place.”_

I can’t breathe. That’s not good. I try to move my foot but he’s stepping on it really hard and it hurts. I try to say something, but it comes out all garbled.

I’m crying now. It’s embarrassing. I would honestly rather wet myself in front of a bunch of people than cry because people won’t talk about you wetting yourself because it’s just a weird thing to talk about in general but I’m not wetting myself. I’m crying, and it’s pathetic. Antlers? Don’t make me laugh. I’m not getting my antlers until I’m like, sixteen.

Tears are flowing steadily from my eyes. I try and get his paw off me but he’s strong. Stupid, stupid strong. I remember now that he was on the basketball team before the whole savage thing happened. That’s unlucky. I passively grip his forearm and struggle as much as I can, but I can barely struggle and my grip is terrible because I have hooves. Which is pretty funny and something I’d really like to laugh at at a later date. But I don’t think I’m gonna be able to.

My vision starts going black. I start making noise, no longer caring about whether I’m squawking or not or if I’m looking bad.

I just want to live.

I just want to be left alone.

Then he drops me. I fall to the ground, coughing and sniffling and wiping my nose and my eyes. I cough until I think I might puke.

When I finally lift my head back up, and when my breathing’s normal again, the tiger’s gone.

 

* * *

 

The next day’s come around and within two hours of being at school, seven different mammals have complained to me about how I cancelled the game. I don’t give them any good explanations, and tell them that if they wanted it so badly, they can go to the back themselves. They stop talking trash after that.

Right now I’m just thankful that that tiger isn’t in my class.

“After that,” Ms. Hornhead drones robotically, like she usually does during history. “The criminals were rounded up and arrested. Eventually all of them died in prison. Now, this is significant because it was the first time that Zootopia’s black market was exposed to the greater public, and the backlash that proceeded to follow it resulted in the deaths of over twenty predators from the city’s lower income areas.”

“Which is bad _because…_ ” someone jokes, to the hysteria of half of the class.

I don’t really pay attention. Mostly I’m mad that I can’t play any ZPD Crime Files until tomorrow because I just _had_  to do everything I could possibly do in the game while I was eating breakfast this morning. I hate history so much. It’s stupid, boring and my throat hurts. I’m not having it today.

Ms. Hornhead starts to answer whoever made the joke when I raise my hand.

“Mr. Gambol?”

“Can I go to the washroom?” I ask.

“Of course. Come back soon, please.”

I hop out of my seat and stroll out of class.

The washroom’s just down the hall and to the left, but everyone uses it, and I’d really rather be alone right now so I have to go use the _other_  one, which is two floors down and hidden amongst three janitors closets. Good thing, too, because I think the janitors keep it extra tidy since it’s the one that they use the most.

As I predict, no one’ inside when I walk in.

Perfect.

 

 

I’m in the middle of relieving myself when I hear footsteps. At first I think it’s one of the janitors.

Nope.

A stealthy side eye at the mirror beside me reveals that Cameron has walked in, saw me peeing, and stood not six feet behind me without saying a word.

So, yeah. I’m dead. That’s it.

I’m about to be eaten.

That’s what I think, at least. For the first minute. But he doesn’t say anything.

Like, nothing at all.

_Nothing._

A few more moments pass and heat flares up in my cheeks. I cough. “H—Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Whatcha doin there?” I ask, staring straight ahead at the wall. I figure that if I’m about to die in a washroom I don’t really want to see it coming.

“Was waiting for you to notice,” he says. “You’re really oblivious, aren’t you?”

I heard you walk through the door, knife ears.

Pause. I didn’t say that out loud again, did I?

After holding my breath for a little bit, I exhale. “What do you want? I’m uh, kinda busy here.”

He mumbles something that I don’t hear over my own bodily functions.

“What?” I ask.

A low growl creeps into my ears, tensing my muscles up and making every single hair on my body stand on end. I close my eyes.

“Sorry.”

What? I look back to see the tiger nervously scratching at his arm. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry. I overreacted.”

“Uh…” I bray idiotically as I zip my pants up and turn around. “Did the principal put you up to this?”

“No!” he asserts, a glower growing over his scowl. “I’m serious. I’m sorry for — you know what I’m sorry for.”

I mean, okay? I guess. I survey his posture for any hints of some sort of weapon in his pocket or any intent to harm me when I’m not expecting it, but he knows already that he’s stronger than me, so it wouldn’t make much sense for him to be looking for a sucker punch, would it? Right?

Hesitantly, I nod. “Okay.”

I start to walk away, but he speeds in front of me like he’s my dad’s car in traffic on a bad day. I back up. “Dude! Can I at least wash my hands before you strangle me again?”

He ignores me, still walking forward. “Don’t worry. I’m not looking for that.”

Oh, crap.

I take back every time I’ve made a prison joke.

We end up walking back into the next wall, and I find that I can’t move laterally. I mean, I can _do it,_ but my dumb genetics are making me freeze up like a — well, like a scared deer. But I'm not scared. Just worried for my life and my body and my purity and I don’t really go to church that much so it’s not like I’m gonna have anything to confess after this but _oh he’s a few inches away from me now how did that happen?_

I turn my muzzle away, screwing my eyes shut.

“Let me buy you lunch.”

My eyes open wide and I put my hooves on his chest. “Do you just have a thing for scaring the life out of my body or are you _that_  socially awkward?”

He glares. I crumple into myself.

“No, wait,” he continues. “I meant dinner. Food in general, I guess. Meet me after school. Four o’ clock. Bark shack.”

Cameron (I should write his name down) backs up. My eyebrows wrinkle up and I tilt my head. “What?”

But he ignores me, walking away as I’m left standing in front of a bunch of empty urinals, repeating myself like a broken record. _“What?”_

 

* * *

 

I don’t think that Cameron’s a criminal, but I do think that he’s a stranger, and for all I know, he could have friends that could take me out with a snap of their fingers. Or family. Or even just some connections that owe his family a favor for whatever reason. Like I said, I don’t really think he’s a criminal or anything. I just think that anything’s possible at this point, so it’s best not to make him angry.

Which is why I’m here, at the Bark Shack. Best diner in…it’s hard to put a name on where I live. The weird transitional area between the Rainforest District and the Meadowlands has always had a bit of an identity crisis. For every sheep run pub you see along the streets here, you’ll find a Rainforest Cafe staffed completely by ocelots and bats. Then you have weird, out of place relics like the Bark Shack.

The place is nice enough. I’m standing outside because it’s so busy, and since it’s busy I think it can be assumed that the food isn’t too bad. The menu is made of both predator and prey items, which means it’s got a really wide appeal, and it makes complete sense why Cameron would invite me here.

See, it’s enough blocks away from school that I’m not too worried about anyone seeing me, but it’s also enough blocks away from school that it’s increasingly unlikely for someone to come and save me if anything happens. The playing field here is pretty equal, save for the height difference between me and him, and the lack of claws on my part. Claws and physical strength.

But despite being a deer, I kinda like to survive and would rather not give in. I’m definitely gonna be in trouble if anything escalates or something bad happens, so what I have to do right now is make sure that nothing does.

And that’s gonna be really hard, because I have no idea what Cameron wants.

I count another two minutes on my phone’s clock before I smell him — the food he’s carrying, I mean. Something cheesy, but nut cheese and not actual cheese, and some kind of food with meat in it. I turn to see him exiting the restaurant, face completely neutral. No good expression but no bad one either. I wonder how long he’s been in there for.

“Got here like ten minutes before you did,” he explains as he hands a box — the cheesey one — to me. “Good thing I did. It’s kinda busy in there.”

Wait, what?

I check the box over for any explosives or poison, but it seems clean. “You went in and bought prey food?”

“It’s not like the menu is exclusive to you guys. Open it.”

I do, and contained within the cheap cardboard box is a beautiful, glistening helping of mac n’ cheese topped with some oregano and a few other, assorted herbs that I can’t quite make out just through smell. And _wow._  It smells really, really good. I don’t think I even realized how hungry I was until now, but I’m starving.

Cameron watches me with the same neutral expression he walked out with. He’s waiting for something.

I meet his stare with a suspicious squint. “Why?”

“Are you not hungry?” he asks.

“I didn’t say that. I asked you—“

“Because I was serious,” he says abruptly. “About what I said earlier.”

What he said… “What, that you wanted to apologize?”

He nods.

I look the box over again. “Do you have any utensils?”

He hands me some. I take another whiff of the delicious comfort food, still hot and steaming. “Yeah, okay. I accept your apology. See you around.”

You know, I really shouldn’t be surprised when I take my first, amazing, mindblowing bite of my food, and try to walk home, and he immediately blocks my path like some kind of boss monster in a video game.

“Why, uh, why don’t you stay for a little bit?” he suggests breathily. That’s when I notice something: he’s nervous. Nervous! Why is he nervous? “We should hang out!”

I think my surprise at that proposition is completely justified. My jaw drops, and a little bit of unchewed macaroni falls out of my mouth. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“It’d be fun?” he says, not fully believing himself.

Definitely some kind of interior motive, here. But what? I look around, but other than the business of the restaurant’s inside, there’s no one around.

Maybe I’m about to get ambushed.

“What are you planning?” I ask, heart beginning to race. “Are you gonna kill me?”

He groans. “No. _No._ ”

“You’re just gonna hurt me, real, real bad,” I say, eyes growing wide. “Where are your friends hiding? There’s witnesses just inside there. You won’t be able to carry me off without—”

He boops me. Moderately hard. Right on the nose. I stop talking, meeting his fiery yellow eyes. How did he get so close without me noticing?

“Are you retarded?”

I…shake my head?

“I didn’t really think this through, did I?” he asks, laughing to himself. “Honestly, I thought that you would just go with it, like, ‘yeah, okay!’ but now that I’m really thinking about it, why would you ever say that? You would have to be the biggest pushover in the world _and_  insane. So I think that I’m gonna give you some incentive.”

“Gonna be real with you, I’m not sure what that word means. Zero idea.”

“It means,” he says, pulling out a credit card and twirling it around. “It means that we should hang out because I’m paying for everything you want.”

“You’re bribing me into hanging out with you,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“You’re paying for friends,” I reword.

“Kind of.”

“You’re paying?”

“Yes.”

I don’t need to think about this twice, because it’s the definition of a no-brainer. Dad always said to refuse hand-outs, but I’m a kid, and money can buy the world and the moon and everything else that matters to me right now. I have, what some would call, zero shame and next to no pride.

So, I’ll take the free money, and if I die getting free money, then at least I’ll make for a good newspaper article for a week or two.

“Okay,” I tell him, feeling a weird feeling in my stomach when he smiles in response. “Let’s go to the arcade, then.”

 

* * *

 

I can’t think too hard over my chewing and the creamy, rich flavors in my mouth, but I know that we’re on the way to the arcade because I could walk there in my sleep. Me and Cameron are walking side by side, because if I went in front he could attack me at any time and if he took the lead then I could run away. It’s a good compromise.

You’d think that I wouldn’t enjoy walking next to a guy who nearly choked me to death the other day like he’s my pal or something, but I think if I don’t think about it too much then, you know, I might be able to forget for a little bit. Plus, the food’s helping.

Have I mentioned this mac n’ cheese yet? Because it’s _so_  good.

I don’t know what _he’s_  eating, but I don’t care either. This food is just—

“So, the arcade,” he brings up suddenly, as we make eye contact through mutual side eyes. “You like games?”

“I’m thirteen,” I say. Are you kidding? Who doesn’t like games?

“Right. Same.”

Anyway, back to the food. Because it’s probably the best food I’ve eaten in my entire life barring that one time when—

Aw, man. I can’t think. It’s way too quiet. The only thing I can hear other than my sloppy chewing is our footsteps against the gravelly ground. My hooves and his paws make for an interesting mix of hard knocking and fleshy little pats that I’m sure I can only hear because he doesn’t care about being sneaky right now.

Sometimes a car will come by, too, but cars are stupid and dumb. When I was a kid I used to have to fight myself from freezing when I walked through traffic. I have zero love for cars. I hate cars.

I would rather talk to the tiger than keep thinking about cars.

“Shooters are nice!” I say, cutting into the silence like it’s slightly warm butter. “Like those cabinets with the fake guns and the reload pedals and all of that. I like those — pretty good at them, actually. But air hockey — oh, man, air hockey is the _best._ I’m ridiculous at it. It’s a little sad. None of my friends wanna play with me anymore. So I don’t really push for the arcade much. Ha _ha._ ”

For once, I look over for his attention, but he stays walking, not saying anything. And now I’m the awkward one.

“That must suck,” he says. I release a breath that I’ve been holding for way too long. “Hey — your friends…”

“What about them?”

“You know,” his voice is getting smaller as he scratches his headfur. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I take another bite of food.

“Does everyone think I’m gonna go savage?”

I chew up my food, taking in the flavors as they explode and dance around my mouth. I swallow, and sigh. Food lasts so long and so short all at the same time. “I’m sure someone doesn’t.”

“Oh,” he says, sounding disappointed.

“Will you play air hockey with me?” I ask.

“I said anything you wanted,” he reminds me. “So yeah.”

“Good. Good. But let’s play Pred Crisis first.”

 

* * *

 

_clickclickclickclickclick._

_clickclickclickclickclick._

A tiger jumps out in front of me and I shoot before he can even get a word in. I release the cover pedal my foot’s been sitting on, and my character hides behind a stray piece of column that fell down when the terrorists first started bombing city hall. There’s a satisfying clinking of metal as my character reloads, and I stomp on the pedal again, gunning down two more felines as they initially run into view.

From the corner of my eye, I look at Cameron’s reaction to the game. He doesn’t really seem to care.

_clickclickclickclickclick._

Our guns fire off with every squeeze of our triggers.

_clickclickclickclickclick._

_clickclick._

Okay. I have to know.

“You’re pretty good at this,” I mention.

“You’re complimenting me?” he asks, surprised.

“Does it freak you out to be shooting at other tigers and stuff?”

Cameron releases his pedal, selects a grenade launcher from the weapons menu and sends either four or five (I don’t have too much time to count) bandana-clad wolves into the next dimension, watching emotionlessly as their limbs bounce off of the screen and spatter blood on his HUD.

“Not really,” he says, like I didn’t already get the point. “I know that this was made in the eighties and it’s speciest or whatever, but this arcade’s not getting new games anytime soon. And it’s fun. And it’s not real. So.”

I hum. “They looked real back in the eighties.”

_clickclickclickclickclick._

“Would you be freaked out to be shooting other gazelle?”

What — what the — _what?_ I drop my arm and look at him. “I’m a deer.”

He blinks. “I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

_clickclickclickclickclick._

He doesn’t offer any more explanation, so I turn back to the game and start shooting again, albeit with a little more enthusiasm. “You know, I don’t know if I’d play if they were all prey.”

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” he wonders genuinely, and it’s weird that I can’t hear any defensiveness in his voice.

“No, I don’t.”

 

**G A M E    O V E R.**

 

“Crap,” I mutter.

“Air hockey, then?”

“Yeah, but—“ I stop as I look up to see that he’s not beside me anymore. I'm only able to see his stripes just as they enter a swarm of kids and more games, and distraught parents holding stupid amounts of dollar pizza. I chase after him, feeling embarrassed for some reason. “Wait up!”

We dodge and duck through a blind bag of different mammals before I fall into open air.

The air hockey tables, arranged in three vague rows of three with varying amounts of space in between. The — Cameron already has a place at my personal favorite spot even though I’ve never told him about it. It’s in the corner, and farther away from the other tables so no one can hear us talk. I don’t know if I want that right now.

You know what? Whatever.

It’s air hockey. He’s not gonna kill me during air hockey.

I walk to the table which, aw, it’s already been activated. It’s totally lame but I really love it when these things are switched on! They like take their first breath in a long time as the air rises out of all the little holes on the surface, like they were drowning and putting the tokens in was like giving them CPR. It’s refreshing for some reason. Like a glass of water, but for your other senses.

Still, that’s only a small part of it. We’ve yet to actually play the game. I take a hold of my little plastic striker (it’s red, which is the better color and will help me win the game in the end, but I could still beat the tiger with the blue one) and put my other hoof on the edge of the table.

Cameron pulls the puck out from his end of the table and places it in front of his striker. We make eye contact and nod.

It’s time to—

My thought is interrupted when the puck zooms towards me than my blood can course through my veins. Good thing I’m amazing at this game, because if I wasn’t then I wouldn’t have been able to block the bright orange disk from sliding into my goal as effortlessly as I do.

I feel my neck fur raise while I study Cameron’s stance. It’s slouched, slightly, but it’s attentive and almost athletic. It’s now that I remember (again) that he was on the basketball team, but that doesn’t matter. It’s air hockey. Skill doesn’t translate across sports. Air hockey isn’t even a sport!

I’m going to win this game. I will not lose to a tiger.

I go to score, but I realize that when I blocked that earlier shot it just bounced off to Cameron’s side.

He’s _smiling._

“Do you play this a lot?” I ask.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” he replies. The liar. He probably comes here every night to pretend he doesn’t know how to play pool and air hockey and darts, and then he hustles other kids out of their lunch money so he can come back and do it again. “Hey — would you wanna make a bet on something?”

“Like what?”

“Something. You make it up.”

So I think. While I have no idea why he would want to do this, it _would_  make the game more exciting. Do I go high risk? Well yeah, of course. I’m gonna win. But how high?

Money? Bets? Favors?

Money. Money is good. Definitely money.

My ears twitch in excitement as I lean over the table. “Five hundred dollars.”

“Done,” he says.

My ears keep twitching. “Seriously?”

“Let’s play,” Cameron says again, smiling.

Right.

Okay.

You know what? I can do this. I believe in myself.

I narrow my eyes and prepare for his shot.

I will not lose to a tiger.

 

* * *

 

Score’s 9 to 9. You need 10 points to win.

I regret a lot of things right now. I regret that time I tried to butt heads with the biggest ram in our school, Jimmy. My brain was throbbing for days. And that time I decided that I snuck out to go skating in Tundratown with my friends and I ended up falling through some ice. Also that one time I forgot that my wallet was completely empty and I ate like 3 chocolate bars at that one convenience store near my house, all the while I was promising the manager that I’d pay for for them once I was done shopping.

I will never, ever regret betting 500 dollars on an air hockey game. Because I’m going to win.

There’s sweat on my back, just barely holding the fabric of my shirt and the fur on my shoulder blades together like it’s expired glue. I should have worn black today.

The puck’s on my side. It’s my shot to take.

Cameron’s across, still looking indifferent, but with a little more thought put into it. He’s probably as on edge as I am right now. I shouldn’t underestimate him.

Or maybe I should! Maybe he’s depending on me to overthink it. Clever kitty.

You know what? I’m just going to do it. Fate is on my side. I feel her — she’s a girl, by the way. She’s over my shoulder, telling me to win. And you know what? I will.

_I will._

I growl under my breath and hit the puck straight forward, just a little to the side.

An orange streak zooms across the board as the puck gets into Cameron’s side in a fraction of a second.

But’s it’s too slow. There’s no way he’s not gonna block that. That’s okay. I’ll just—

The puck slides into Cameron’s goal, clattering to the bottom

_I just won five hundred dollars._

Before I know it I’m leaned over the table, gripping the edge as hard as I can. My eyes are stretched as wide as they can get without popping out of their sockets and I’m laughing so hard I can barely feel myself laughing. “Haha _hahahahahahaha_ , I won! You owe me five hundred dollars. Five hundred. _Hundred_. Can you believe that? I told you that we were playing for five hundred dollars and you _actually_ said _yes_. Hahaha!”

Cameron shrugs. “Good game. Wanna get out of here?”

“Sure!” I chirp.

 

We make our way out of the arcade side by side. The amount of mammals that were here have gradually been chipped down to older kids with no curfews, and us two, so getting all the way to the exit isn’t as much of a hassle as I expect it to be. Within no time we’re out in the crisp evening air. I take a deep breath, feeling like I’ve stepped into a nice bath.

Five hundred dollars.

Wait.

I turn to Cameron, who’s beside me stretching, ready to say something, but for a second I stand and observe. The sight of a tiger stretching is weirdly, just, majestic, in spite of the fact that I’m the one who’s supposed to be related to the great Prince of the Forest.

What am I doing? I bap myself on the head, hitting all distraction out of my mind before asking him “You can actually pay, right?”

He makes some weird sound with his…I don’t even know what parts of his body he’s using, but it sounds like like a really slow sneeze, but not gross. Does that make sense? Anyway, he makes that noise and then nods at me with a serious look on my face. “Of course. It’s not that much.”

Not _that much?_

“Was there anything else you wanted to do?” he asks.

“Uh,” I cough. “Ice cream. There’s a place around here I think I can find.”

Cameron cracks a few of his knuckles. “Great! Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

What am I doing?

I mean, let’s start things off with my surroundings. I took us to a _Dairy Queen_  despite the fact that I _hate_  Dairy Queens because I went to someone’s seventh birthday that was hosted at Dairy Queen once, and there was this panther kid and he totally stole all the change I had in my pocket and then “accidentally” dropped some of his sundae in my lap. Also it’s _fake_. Fake dairy. Not that’d ever have real dairy because that’s gross, but how could you call yourself the “Dairy Queen” when it’s not even real? It’s stupid.

The other thing is that the environment is pleasant. Nice. No, I don’t mean the mammals. They all seem fine, yes, but I mean that I don’t actually feel like Cameron’s gonna kill me. He’s seated across from me and he seems relaxed, and I’m not feeling my heart beat fast at all. Here’s the kicker, though:

We’re making _conversation._

“So,” I smile awkwardly, but hopefully not awkward enough to be noticeable. “What’s your favorite class?”

“History,” he replies.

My smiles drops. “Gross.”

“Yeah, it can be kind of a downer,” he admits, scratching the back of his ear. “But it’s easy.”

“How so?”

And then he starts explaining, and I’m left to wonder if I have Stockholm Syndrome. Yeah. You know, the thing where mammals who get kidnapped actually convince themselves that whoever kidnapped them is actually good on the inside or whatever? I might have that.

Thing is, Cameron didn’t kidnap me. He just choked me a little bit and I’m starting to forgive him for that, which might be a sign that I’m crazy.

But five hundred bucks is kind of _a lot of money._  Maybe it’d be weird if I didn’t go crazy over that.

That’s why I started feeling better about this whole thing anyway. Why I started talking.

Oh, god, the _talking._

Actually, this brings up a really weird point.

Am I speciest?

“And that’s why I like history,” he finishes.

I nod blankly, drumming my hooves on the table. “Man, when’s our food getting here?”

“No idea. There’s only five other people here.”

There is? I look around, scanning for anyone staring at us, and then—

Why am I scanning in the first place? It’s not weird for a tiger and a deer to hang out. Just two strapping young gentlemen spending some time together, right?

It’s not weird.

I snap back, eyes wide as it hits me. Cameron furrows his brows, leaning forward. “You alright?”

I’m definitely speciest. I laugh erratically. “Yep! It’s nothing. I don’t know. I’m just…uh, really hungry!”

“Are you sure?”

“Totally — so you’re rich, right?” I ask, feeling heat rise up my neck when his slight smirk deflate into more of a neutral stare. “Just, wondering. Because you kind of waved off five hundred bucks like it was nothing, and—“

“I’m not poor,” he explains mysteriously. Which can only mean that he definitely has a room twice as big as my room and a house twice as big as my house. Which means he’s definitely rich. Stupid rich.

“What do your parents do?”

“I dunno,” he says, crossing his arms. “Can we not talk about them?”

“Are they lawyers?”

“No.”

“Are they murderers?”

“No!” he snaps testily.

“Alright!” I put my hooves up in apology. “But are they—“

“Order 33?” a cow waitress suddenly calls out. Cameron waves her over and she sets down a single banana split and some curly fries.

This… “This isn’t our order. I mean, it is a little bit, but we had two banana splits.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, disinterested. “We actually ran out of ice cream. You’re gonna have to share.”

“Ran out—you _ran out_  of ice cream?” I ask, slapping my hooves on the table. “What does that mean, you “ran out of ice cream?” You’re literally called _Dairy Queen._ How is that possible?”

“If you want, you can order anything else on the menu and we’ll give it to you for free,” she says, this time holding back a yawn.

“Are you _kidding._ ”

“He’ll have a smoothie,” Cameron says to her before he turns and looks at me. “Jamie…”

Oh. Whoah. I give him a wide-eyed stare. “You’ve never said my name before.”

He tilts his head, thick, shaggy fur gently waving like jelly. “That’s true. You should sit down.”

“Not before I—“ I snap to where the waitress should be, but she’s gone. Just up and left, I guess. I drop into my seat and groan, staring up at the ugly pastel pink ceiling. Maybe some divine presence will see me right now, take pity on me and send an ice cream truck over so me and Cameron can however many frozen delights we want and not be offered anything _but_  what we came for. “I hate Dairy Queen so freaking much.”

I breathe out of my mouth harshly, flapping my lips like a horse. For a moment I’m stuck waiting for a response from my schoolmate. But there’s isn’t any.

A jostle from across the table gets me to bring my head back to normal as I look at—

Cameron’s got a spoonful of ice cream out. He’s offering it to me.

I don’t know how to feel. “Seriously?”

He nods, a serious look on his face.

I should probably take it. I mean, I don’t know what he’ll do if I refuse, and also I’d really like some ice cream right now. So I should, shouldn’t I?

I lean forward and eat the ice cream.

“Good?” he asks.

Yes. Oh my god, yes. It’s _so_  good. I think it’s even good enough to suffer through the act of going to a Dairy Queen and ordering it even though you completely hate the franchise and all that it stands for.

I nod, at a loss for words.

It’s delicious enough that even when Cameron smiles and I see the collection of pocket knives that are contained in his huge, snake-like maw, I don’t even flinch. I actually manage to smile back.

“Thanks,” I say.

“No problem.”

He goes to feed himself, but I gently snag the spoon out of his paws. He watches quietly as I get a nice even scoop of vanilla, syrup and banana and offer it to him.

“Why?”

“You fed me,” I explain, a grin starting to form. “Now I feed you. That’s how it works.”

Something glimmers in his lemony yellow eyes, but he takes a bite regardless.

“Good, right?”

“It’s okay,” he admits. “I wouldn’t order it again.”

“I would,” I look down at the cold piece of utter paradise. “I still hate Dairy Queen, though.”

“I think I got that,” Cameron says with a giggle, as he takes the spoon back from me.

On reflex I open my mouth, but he just feeds himself with the portion of banana split that he takes. Probably isn’t keen on sharing the entire thing. Which is, you know, that’s fine. That’s alright. I mean he said it was just “okay” but it _was_  his order so he can do what he wants with it. I don’t care.

“Did you want some more?” he asks. He must have noticed me staring, but I’m pretty sure I wasn’t staring. I was just spacing out and not looking at anything in particular.

“No,” I say, inspective my hooves.

I need to find something else to talk about. Anything to get my mind off food.

Oh, right! There are curly fries! And we were talking about something before the worst waitress in the world came and brought us the wrong order!

“So, you _are_  rich, right?” I ask for a second time, popping a fry into my mouth. I’ve held off on them for long enough that they’re still warm but they’re not gonna give me any third degree burns if I don’t stop to blow on them first.

Cameron rolls his eyes, but he can’t speak because he’s got a mouthful of refreshingly flavorful frozen delight, so he just nods.

“Well, like, why don’t you have any friends?”

He swallows. “You know why.”

“Because you’re too pretty?” I joke, getting a glare in response.

So I sigh. “Being a tiger has nothing to do with it.”

“It does.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Does.”

Doesn’t!” I snap. To my surprise, he rears back. Like there’s _any_  world where I can hurt him. I whine aimlessly, scratching at my neck. “Look. Everyone hangs out in the front. You hang out in the back. That’s all there is. Why does _every_  pred have to have this weird angst trip over _being_  a pred? I get that we’re thirteen, but seriously, dude.”

“We’ve gone four hours, maybe more, without mentioning yesterday,” he replies tersely. “And you just had to screw it all up.”

“Do you want a fry?” I offer.

“No.”

“Alright,” I put like four whole curly fries into my mouth before I realize that I’ve already devoured my way through half the box without noticing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just needed something to talk about. Stupid Dairy Queen’s taking a million years to finish my order.”

I can see him thinking. His mouth twitches as he goes through different things that he can say in his mind. Just out of view I notice his tail flicking around like it’s trying to swat mosquitos. Whatever he’s going to try to say, it’s not gonna be very fun.

“It’s just that—“

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “I shouldn’t even be thinking of saying sorry. You’re the one who nearly _killed_  me _literally_  yesterday.”

…

“Great,” he sulks. “Now things are awkward.”

I scoff. “They have been this whole time!”

But from the way that his eyes widen, his brows lift up and his tail stands on end I feel I said something wrong.

Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not right, right?

“Do you want to leave?” he asks.

I shrug. “Okay.”

Cameron pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and leaves it on the table. I shouldn’t be so in love with the sight of it — it’s just some old deer on green paper — but I totally am. I stare for a long, long second, dreading the fact that it’s gonna go to waste going to the wallet of someone who works at the worst fast food establishment in the world.

He’s gone when I look for him.

I stumble outside, into the evening and onto the frying pan. Literally. Someone just left a frying pan here. I don’t know why, or how, or what I’d even do with a frying pan I had to throw away anyways. Maybe I’d do the same thing. Just leave it outside of a Dairy Queen. You know they’d use it.

Crap. He’s not anywhere around here. Believe me, he’d be super easy to spot. Tigers are _so orange_. 

Eh. He probably went home. Seems like I pissed him off a little bit.

What do I care?

I don’t.

Do I? No. That would be stupid.

Today was a really weird day.

Oh well. I pull up Zoogle Maps, type in my address, and get on my path home.

 

* * *

 

You know, my mom died when I was little. I’m not too broken up about it because apparently she wasn’t really worth knowing. Kinda wish I knew her anyway, you know? So I could decide for myself. I might have felt different about it. Sometimes I feel like having a mom is overrated, though. So I’m a little undecided on the whole thing. I’m allowed to be.

Once we were doing Mother’s Day cards in class back in the third grade, and I didn’t know what to do so I just pretended that I had a mom and my card was actually shown by the teacher as a perfect example of a good card. I remember everyone’s faces when I just dropped that my mom was dead. It was like a really good prank, but I couldn’t really laugh because, you know, my mom was dead and that’s kind of sad.

Something good came out of that, actually. Later during break I was at my locker and like a _bunch_  of girls started talking to me and stuff. Guys too, but they were a more low-key about the whole thing.

Nowadays I have a lot of friends, and I think that it’s because once I told the whole class that my mom was dead.

I don’t know what I expected out of that. I wasn’t really thinking like, at all. I just thought it could be funny. And it was! But you know, I just didn’t laugh right then. I laugh about it now.

What if I had gotten bullied? I’ve heard of kids getting run out of schools because their parents beat them and the kids make fun of them for it. No, that’s not a joke. That actually happens. Happened to a ewe that my cousin went to school with once. I have no idea how it happened, but she actually got expelled.

Yeah. Expelled. Because she was being bullied. How messed up is that?

She was different. That’s what it comes down to.

She could have been me.

And I was lucky.

And Cameron threw the game on purpose because he wanted to keep hanging out, didn’t he?

Oh, man, I should find him like _now_. Good thing I haven’t moved since I walked like half a block away from the Dairy Queen.

 

 

* * *

 

I follow the road, going opposite to where I was headed for what feels like no reason and for a good reason at the same time, if you know what I mean. Really just going on my instincts here.

Lucky that I do, because I see a sign a few blocks over.

 

SLOW — PLAYGROUND.

 

It’s late evening and everyone’s inside. There’d be basically no one at a playground.

No one except…you know.

Probably.

Better make sure.

My heart throbs in my chest as my walking gets faster and faster, speeding up with every thought that passes through my head. What am I gonna say? What am I gonna do? It’s gonna be weird. What if he tries to kill me again? He won’t. But what if? This isn’t a good idea. It’s just what feels good. So that means it’s actually secretly a good idea. That’s how things work, right?

I start to run.

No, that’s over-selling it.

I start to jog. I hunch over a little bit, making sure that every bit of movement I do is going forward and not back.

And as the gray beneath my feet turns to a lush green, and the scent of tears, rusty nails and tetanus fills my nose, I see it. And him.

The drama-cat’s on a — what the hell is that? _We_  don’t have one of those. It’s a giant pyramid of red ropes, all attached to a single pole in the centre. There’s enough space on the thing for like fifty kids to hop on and climb around. Is this a pred school?

I stop wondering and look up to the sky, where the tiger’s sitting at the crow’s nest at the very top of the thing. Chances are he doesn’t see, or smell me, being so high up, but when I walk up to the pyramid and set a hoof on top of a rope, I see his back twitch, and there’s no doubt that he knows I’m here.

Stupidly, I prepare for him to bolt down like a disturbed spider, but he stays as still as a statue.

The rope underneath me wobbles endlessly. I take a small leap upwards and grope around until I’m stable again. I’m about a third way through the pyramid.

I just realized something. I’m _really_  bad at climbing.

My right hoof slips out, and I let out a short yelp before I regain footing. Hoofing. Whatever it’s called.

“Cameron,” I call, looking at what looks now like a red speck two thousand feet about me. “I don’t know if I can do this. Can you come down?”

He doesn’t respond. Of course he doesn’t.

I try and climb some more, and actually get pretty far. The ropes seem easier to climb the higher up I go. More steady, for some reason.

Scuff that earlier though. I’m pretty damn good at this.

Cameron’s gone from like a million years away to being almost close enough to touch. I just need to climb a little more.

Just a little more. And then—

Well. Then I have to decide what I want to do.

I narrow my eyes. I can have the pleasure of being indecisive when I actually get there.

Squeezing the ropes above me, I pull myself up and forward. My muscles burn from the exertion but I will myself to swing towards the red pole and the crow’s nest attached around it. I’m able to get my bottom hooves on the crow’s nest, and I let go of the rope I’m holding with my fingers, but because I’m stupid or something I let go with both hooves and my upper body swings back.

I almost fall, but I’m super clutch so I manage to grab some rope and haul myself into—

Into Cameron’s chest. I look up at his tight-lipped, wide-eyed face, and grin.

“So does that mean you forgive me?”

He glares and tries to move, but then I _actually_  fall and he wraps an arm around my lower back, holding me up.

A tiger has my life in his hands. Again.

His expression shifts. Mine does too. We both settle on something neutral and non-threatening.

“Hey,” I say, feeling myself dangle. “You’re not gonna drop me, are you?”

He blinks. “What do you think you need to be forgiven for?”

“You’re really strong. You’re not even straining.”

“I think you just might be skinny.”

“Thank you. I’ve been a little scared that I’ve been getting fat. I eat like two donuts every night.”

“You’ll get cavities,” he says.

“I know,” I mutter. “I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“Don’t be,” he says again, helping me get oriented on the crow’s nest.

When he’s sure that I’m not gonna fall again, he turns around and crouches down.

That’s when I struggle for words, and thank god I do, because then I hear him cry.

At first I think he might be having a seizure or something. Then I get worried that he’s having trouble breathing and my phone totally fell out of my pocket like, twenty feet down. Then I try and picture what he’d look like breathing short like that, shaking as he tries to stop himself from breaking down, and I can’t picture anything except for him crying, and that’s not okay.

Regardless, I cough and ask, “You good?”

He stops for a second. “I—I’m fine.”

His voice cracks and there’s that metallicy, synthy undertone to his words.

I cling to the red pole. “Don’t cry,” I breathe. “Hey — you don’t have to pay me that money if you don’t want to. I don’t need it.”

Every second he spends trying not to sob feels like a really long road-trip that lost its novelty three hours ago.

When I start thinking about jumping he finally speaks, in a quiet voice that I need to shuffle closer and squat to hear, and even then I have my doubts about what he’s saying.

“We were sharing a bag of Meow Mix, me and my parents,” he drones. “Watching a movie. And then we saw the news report. Everything was fake! It wasn’t real. It didn’t actually happen. That’s what I thought. But the thing is that it _did,_ didn't it? Mammals were still hurt, and it’s not like our fangs and claws went away when the hoax was announced.”

Sniffling, he turns to face me, and I see his half-lidded eyes and the tears running down them. “Did you know I used to have friends?”

“I don’t think I know anything about you,” I say, hugging myself tighter to the pole. “But, you know, our school is weird.”

“What was it before, seven hundred kids?” he chokes, turning away from me again. “I was friends with five. And they’re gone now. Moved away when the attacks happened.”

I remember that. We went from being able to fill the entire school with classes to only taking up a third. It wasn’t good, but none of my friends moved away. We couldn’t really afford to.

“They sound like major dicks.”

“They were right to. At least when it happened,” Cameron argues, but his posture sags even further a second later. “But I never heard back from any of them. And then — then a whole _year_  later I prove them right. I choke a kid to death.”

Raising an eyebrow even though he can’t see it, I protest. “I’m still alive.”

“I could have done it. We both know that, and then I’m lying in bed at like 2 in the morning and I tell myself ‘hey, if I make this right, maybe I can have friends again.’ but that was stupid. I’m stupid,” he whimpers, and all awkwardness fades from my mind and the only thing I can think to myself is that this isn’t right.

He quivers as he falls into silence.

And it’s now that I realize that he’s been begging for something the entire day. Holy crap.

Dude just _really_  needs a hug. I think.

I have a minor headache coming on, but I push it to the back of my mind and crouch beside him, putting my palm on his shoulder. He shudders again, and from this angle I see the tears are really flowing now. Once, I drank three giant mugs of cappuccino in one sitting for a dare and thought my heart was gonna explode afterwards. I kinda feel like that right now.

I should stop.

No, I shouldn’t. I’m not going to.

“Hey,” I wonder aloud. “Don’t you think we’ve hung out for long enough to become friends by proximity?”

He shakily composes himself, and then goes to answer. That’s when I lurch forward, pulling him back, and when he turns reflexively I wrap my arms around him tight.

My breathing is really thick and strained, like if an elephant was trapped in a fox-sized sauna full of other elephants. We’re trapped in silence, wrapped in it like a padlocked straightjacket.

And then he hugs back, and I squeeze tighter and he squeezes tighter and we’re hugging now, and with any kind of luck at all it’s gonna be okay.

He smells. Not good or bad. There’s just a cat smell and it’s smelly. But not really a bad smelly.

At least he’s stopped crying.

We stay in place for a while, hugging each other tight.

“This is really gay,” he whispers after a minute.

“Yeah, it is.”

“The sun is setting. We’re hugging under a sunset.”

I nod against his chest. “I know.”

“Do you care?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

Finally, we let go of each other. He smiles as I regain my seating. “Sorry.”

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but then he just nods. “Okay.”

“Good,” I sigh, putting a hoof on his paw as I look away, surveying the area for any eavesdroppers. Not gonna lie. He’s real warm. And comfy. “You wanna like, forgive and forget?”

“Sure thing.”

We nestle against each other, leaning on the big red pole holding up the weird rope pyramid together, and watch the sun set. Cameron’s right. It _is_  incredibly gay. But it’s nice and pretty. There’s golds and purples and oranges and they do things with each other, and after staring at the sky for a while I find it hard to tell them apart.

“I have a Switch,” Cameron mentions. “Come over tomorrow and we can play it.”

Don’t I have a thing? “I might have a thing.”

“Friday then?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, hey,” he blurts, and from the expression on his face I think that he might be _blushing_. “Now that I’m thinking about it, are you—“

I put a hoof on his shoulder. “Let’s not ruin the moment.”

And he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, and I smile back, and we look at the sunset again. My dad will be expecting me to be back soon, but I don’t have to go yet. I’m sitting here on this weird rope triangle and I’m at a playground at...at God knows where but I have a new friend, and so does Cameron, and I’m and deer and he’s a tiger and that’s completely okay. And you know what? It’s gonna be  _great._


End file.
